


Half Holiday

by opalmatrix



Category: The Dalemark Quartet - Diana Wynne Jones
Genre: Collection: Purimgifts Day 2, Frenemies, Gen, Male Friendship, Responsibility, Stress Relief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-23 05:48:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13781040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opalmatrix/pseuds/opalmatrix
Summary: The Crown of Dalemark weighs heavy on Mitt.  Fortunately, he has a friend with a solution.





	Half Holiday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ShadowEtienne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowEtienne/gifts).



> As requested, a friendship story. No beta: :-(

Moril's first impression of the new palace in Kernsburgh was that it was stiff. Stiff, freshly painted white walls, stiff wooden chairs with stiff cushions on the seats, stiff new draperies at the windows, and a stiff, unhappy look on the face of King Amil.

Moril took a stiff drink from the glass of wine that had been brought to him. It was white wine, northern, crisp and flinty. _Stiff_. He raised the glass in the direction of his old friend and sometime rival. "To my old pal Mitt, then," he said.

Mitt grimaced, which at least made him look more like himself for a moment. "To old friends," he said, in a bad imitation of Navis Hadsson, and tossed his wine straight down.

"Easy," said Moril. "That'll strip your tonsils right out. Navis getting to you?"

Mitt slammed his glass down on the carved wooden table beside him. As one, both young men stared at the glass, expecting it to shatter. By some miracle, it seemed fine. "Navis, my being the blasted king, waiting to get married and not being able to visit with Biffa without half the world watching. What _isn't_ getting to me?"

"You need a holiday," said Moril. He drew the big cwidder onto his lap and started to pick out a lively little dance tune. Mitt watched him unhappily.

"I don't believe kings get holidays," he said. His voice was bitter enough to have wormed a dog.

Moril finished his tune with a flirty little flourish. "Give me an order, Your Majesty. I am but your humble servant."

"Knock it off, you disgusting ginger tomcat!"

"No, really! If it's your order, I have to do it, don't I? Order me to pick up some food from the kitchen, get out a couple of horses, and meet you at the back gate of that mudpit that's supposed to be the palace garden someday. And order me to take you somewhere."

"Someone will follow us."

"Then you can order them to get lost, Your Majesty."

Mitt rubbed his nose and then sat up straight in his stiff chair. "We, King Amil, do hereby order our loyal servant Moril Clennensson…."

An hour later, they had two hills between them and the growing town of Kernsburgh. A falcon soared overhead, and wildflowers were blooming on the hillsides. Moril led the way off the road to a dell where a small spring bubbled up, shaded by willow trees with brilliantly green new leaves. They unpacked the basket and shared what Moril had scrounged from the kitchen: bread, cheese, a flask of ale, and jam tarts. Birds hopped and chirped in the willows, and even someone coming along the narrow road from town wouldn't have seen them through the drooping branches. 

Mitt lay back on the ground, his coat rolled beneath his head, and stared up through the green leaves and brown boughs to the blue sky beyond. Moril picked out a wandering tune on the cwidder, notes dropping softly into the bubbling murmur of the spring. "I could sleep," said Mitt.

"No one's stopping you," said Moril, plucking another gentle flurry of notes from his father's instrument. He watched Mitt's eyelids sag, flick back open once, twice, and then close. Slowly the lines of care and temper eased from his face. Moril set down the cwidder and covered the King with his own short cloak. He stretched a moment, then stepped out from beneath the branches and looked up the side of the dell toward the road.

As he expected, two of Navis' men were perched there. He made a shooing motion at them, and they shrugged, then got under cover.

It would have to do. Moril sat down and took up his tune-smithing once more.

**Author's Note:**

> The image is the painting _Boy with a Glass and a Lute_ , by Frans Hals (1582–1666), and the image is public domain from Wikimedia.


End file.
